Page 25 of The Art of Almost Losing It
Trying to calm down in the dark room, I take deep breaths in and out.
It smells like him, the rich wood scent. It actually smells good, which really says something about my piss-poor mental state.
Low self-esteem. Piper’s right.
If I get out of here—when I get out of here—I’m going to go find the first guy I see and make him be my boyfriend for Tuesday.
I can hear my kidnapper moving around in the bedroom, talking to himself, though I can’t make out what he says.
It’s likeAmerican Psycho.
“Let me out!” I shriek and bang on the closet door. “I’m going to pee in your closet.”
He flings the door open.
“Are you an animal? There is a bathroom to your left. God, I kidnapped the worst fucking woman in NYC, didn’t I?”
“There’s a what?” I yelp.
He points.
I squint up at him then glance over my shoulder.
Sunlight streams into the closet, illuminating a set of paneled doors at the back of the closet. I fling them open, revealing my dream bathroom, all white marble and antique brass hardware. A tub big enough to sleep in. More windows with that million-dollar Central Park view.
“How long have I been in here? What day is it?”
His chest heaves as he breathes heavily, looking down at me from that impossible height.
Not in a weird sexual way, of course.
I’m not the hot girl.
I’m the awkward floater friend, remember?
And now the floater girlfriend.
How does my kidnapper have buyer’s remorse?
He’s not as ugly or as old or as creepy as you’d assume a kidnapper would be. And the way he’s frowning makes him very Victorian-gothic romance coded.
“Look, I need to get out of here. You obviously don’t want me.” I wait for him to deny it. Chew on my lip. “Just… I cannot be here. I cannot be kidnapped, okay?”
“Clean up,” the deep voice snarls.
The shower is absurd. Rainfall head. Perfect water pressure. Steam curling around white marble like I’ve wandered into a spa. I stand there too long, just letting the heat soak into my bones, trying to forget how I got here.
Numbly I scrub my skin and wash my hair.
I don’t have my anti-tangling conditioner, and I know my hair’s going to poof up later. Will it matter? It’s not like he’s ever going to let me see another human soul.
There’s a robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door.
I hesitate then slip it on.
My kidnapper’s scent envelops me. Clean. Expensive. Disturbingly comforting.
At least I’m clean now.
